The Language of Stones

by Robert Carter

  ‘This way!’ Gwydion cried. ‘Over here!’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Will called out, astounded that the wizard should be bent on attracting the monster.

  ‘We must draw it away! If it takes power from the Ring it will be impossible to stop! You go that way, and I will go this. Willand, do what you can to make it come to you, for I must replenish my strength!’

  Then the wizard climbed up onto the stones of Orba’s tomb. He planted his feet wide, his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell into a muttering trance as he tried to draw power from the earth. In that desperate pass it seemed to Will that he had been left to face the danger alone. He stared at the harm that writhed and boiled like a dark flame above the red glow of the battlestone.

  ‘Master Gwydion!’ he cried, shaking the wizard. ‘Master Gwydion! Be quick!’

  The harm struggled one more time and kicked itself free, bursting the battlestone into a dozen fragments. It looked about itself and gave voice to a blood-chilling cry, and when it began to head their way, Will felt pure terror. He knew he must try to draw it off. He waved his arms and shouted, and when the beast advanced upon him, he ran.

  The harm’s roar was deafening, its footfalls shook the earth. Will drew it away from the wizard, heading neither towards the Ring nor back towards the misshapen finger of the Liarix. He stopped again and again to throw clarts of earth at it and make sure that he was enraging it and tempting it onward. He ran until his knees gave way, got up and ran again, but then he burst through a hedge and crashed down hard amid a mess of half-burned branches. The ground was full of ashes here and still warm – it was the remains of his own camp fire, the place where just a few hours ago he had dreamed of home.

  Under him was something hard – the crane bag! He remembered the silver-bound horn and what was engraved on it in the true tongue:

  Ca iaillea nar oine baiguel ran,

  Ar seotimne meoir narla an,

  Aln ta’beir aron diel gan.

  Should you stand in time of need,

  Blow me, and you shall have speed.

  He pulled it out, put it to his lips and winded it with all his might.

  Nothing! The air went straight through. And now the harm was coming towards him, bellowing and steaming. Will blew again, harder, spluttering and spittling, but still he could raise no sound. He was about to run on when he remembered how the jacks on Foderingham’s walls blew up their trumpets to give warning of approach. He pressed his lips together, and this time the note rang out, clear and high and wavering. He blew upon the horn three times, but there appeared no Green Man, no retinue of elfin warriors as he had hoped. Instead the harm roared and bore down, closing on him as surely as the darkness of night closed upon the twilight world.

  Then, just as he thought his last chance had gone, there came an answer to his call. A huge, white mare galloped out of the gloom, and Gwydion was on her back.

  ‘Behold Arondiel!’ Gwydion said, riding up swiftly from his place below the stones of Orba’s Tomb. ‘Arondiel, steed of the Lady Epona of old! Fleetest of horses! You have called her out from the hill above Dumhacan Nadir, for though I missed it at first, her name was hidden upon the horn!’

  Will mounted up and bent over the horse’s mane and they rode for their lives. ‘Run swift into the East, my sure-footed friend!’ Gwydion shouted. ‘Run fleet and run fair! Race the harm to Verlamion! Speed us into the sunrise, for in the East lies our only hope!’

  And they went like the wind, and the harm came in pursuit, its roars shaking the leaves from the trees, its shadow overspreading the sleeping world. It came after them as fast as any earthly horse might gallop, but Will lay forward along Arondiel’s mane, fistfuls of silver gripped in his fists, his face pressed against the side of the horse’s neck, and they sped onward.

  Gwydion hung on behind, casting pitfalls into their wake. Will heard the power of the wizard’s spells, but nothing availed them and the harm drew ever closer. ‘Master Gwydion, why doesn’t it heed your magic?’ he cried fearfully.

  ‘Because I do not know the name that would give me power over it.’

  ‘Then, are we lost?’

  ‘Not while I breathe!’ Blue fire burned and spun in Gwydion’s hands then was let fly. ‘Back, fierce one! Or I shall sting you with a blinding fire!’

  Though every bolt delivered into the gloom struck their pursuer, nothing could halt it. Each ball of fire exploded in earth-shuddering booms and shocks of livid light. In those flashes Will saw fields and woods burst into being then vanish again. Over shallow brooks and rivers wide they rose. Past hedgerow elms and hillocks green, galloping at last between two aged oaks that Gwydion webbed with fleeting strands of magic. And all the while he whispered up more spells as Arondiel’s hooves hammered onward. The brave mare flew over gates and across brooks, by wood and wold, by heath and hedgerow, but always eastward, as if she knew the swiftest road to glory.

  But behind them the harm continued undaunted. Each rushing stride that Arondiel took, it made up a little more ground. Up hill and down dale they dashed, through thicket and glade, across open meadow and iris marsh. But no matter which way their path led them, the harm followed, and nothing that Gwydion threw down could make it stumble or turn aside.

  Will hung on, sure not to lose his grip, for he saw that to fall from so fleet a steed as Arondiel would mean certain death. They had soon ridden twice as far and twice as fast as any natural horse could have carried them. They travelled the sleeping land, thundering through dark Hundreds, past the villages of Thring, Wing and Ivangham, then they slowed as they leapt the Slaver road called the Ickenold. At last there rose up a great chalky scarp that stood like a bulwark across their path.

  Will was sure the beast would catch them now but though it closed, Gwydion cast up a coruscation of fire before it and Arondiel flew headlong away, taking them up and higher up, towards the ridge above. Beyond lay the Plains of Hooe, but Will saw they would never reach them.

  ‘Hide us!’ he cried through gritted teeth. ‘Vanish us away as once you did before!’

  ‘We cannot hide! I have been unable to prepare a vanishing-spell. Nor would it or any lesser magic deceive this terror. Wherever we go it will follow us, for we have released it and it is set on our destruction.’

  ‘But if we can’t outpace it, and we cannot hide from it, then there’s no escape! We must turn and fight it now!’

  ‘Then take courage while you may, Willand! For I fear matters will come to that here upon Beacon Hill!’

  But Arondiel was not exhausted yet. She raced up the winding path that led up towards the ridge, while the verse the harm had screamed as it had emerged from the stone rang loud in Will’s head. In the true tongue the words had the power to drive men to dread, and their meaning was clear:

  As the armies approach Verulam,

  Gore shall redden the spears!

  Young men shall slaughter!

  The Crow of Death shall be heard in the Isles!

  Blood fall upon the folk of Trinovant!

  Blood fall down upon them all!

  Blood upon each and every one!

  ‘Arondiel must run no more!’ Will called back. ‘We must turn here and make our stand!’

  ‘If we do, we shall surely perish!’

  ‘We must stand, Master Gwydion, for we’ve come to this hill and we must go no further!’

  The wizard looked at where they stood and shook his head. ‘What certainty brings you here?’

  Will begged to be heard. ‘Better that we two fight and die here, than go to a place where the harm can feast on the blood of two armies.’

  Arondiel reared and set them down. And Will blew a second blast on the silver-bound horn and vanished the horse away as if she had never been. ‘Farewell, old thunderfoot!’ Gwydion cried out as the mare’s form dissolved before them.

  ‘Our thanks go with you!’ Will called into the night. ‘If I do no more in this life I can fairly claim to have ridden the finest horse that ever the
re was – or ever will be!’

  But there was no more time for thanks and farewells.

  ‘We are unarmed and there is little left of my stock of magic,’ Gwydion warned. ‘But you know there is one yet who would fight the harm on our behalf. He will come wherever and whenever I might request him.’

  ‘Then request him here and now!’

  Gwydion turned. He looked down the hill and saw the shadow emerge from the woods below. It slowed and stopped, suspecting treachery. Then, thinking them at bay, it let out another air-shattering roar and came on.

  ‘Stand firm, Willand! It will not take us without a fight!’ Gwydion shouted, then the words of emanation came to his lips. The ground began to shake and break, and as large as the shadow was, that which now emerged at the wizard’s request was larger still.

  ‘Alba!’ Will cried. ‘So he was real, after all!’

  ‘Arise, earth giant!’ Gwydion commanded. ‘Once summoned, Alba will not suffer such harm as this to roam his realm with impunity.’

  And it was true, for in the grey fore-dawn light the giant Alba emerged once more from the dewy earth, as huge-shouldered and mighty as he had been on a day long ago. Again his anger was plain. He grew as he rose, throwing off clods, and when he had stood up he turned his warty face to confront the malign power that stalked the land.

  The wrestling was fierce, as first one huge form and then the other seized the advantage. Will looked on, astonished as the harm ripped into Alba’s flesh, yet each time he sent his tormentor reeling. Full-fisted blows rained down as the harm coiled, serpent-like, around one of Alba’s great limbs and spat venom into his eyes. Alba throttled the harm and threw it down heavily, then the giant took his adversary in a grip of steel. Sinews strained to squeeze the strength from it. Alba gave his all, but just as it seemed he had won the shadow of war dissolved away.

  Now a mirage of back smoke was wreathed all around him. It moved, taunting the giant, showing how easy it was to escape his hold. Alba tried time and again to seize the harm once more, but he lost himself at last in the grey mists. Then the air around him began to spark with hurts each more painful than a knife slash. Alba was by now blind with rage. He roared and staggered and cast about again for his enemy, but no enemy could he find. The harm had vanished from sight, yet he was racked by so many maddening pains that he cried out. At last he twirled and flung up his arms, calling out to his enemy to do battle with him. Roaring and stamping furiously upon the ground, he sought in vain that vile serpent head to smite, and had it not been such a fearsome sight Will might have thought it tragic to see Alba’s great guardian strength so easily deceived by malice.

  But there was more, for now, having thrown the giant into a bewildered passion, the harm drew itself together again and grew up at Alba’s back. Once more it assumed solid substance, a clawed limb that ripped at the giant’s shoulders and tore his neck. In this way the harm bore Alba down.

  Will saw at once that the giant was sorely hurt, for when Alba threw the harm off he groaned like one who knew his fate was sealed, and when the harm came at him again it was clear that Alba’s huge strength was spent.

  ‘He’s broken!’Will cried.

  ‘The stand was brave, but against such a foe neat bravery could never be enough.’

  ‘Then we are lost!’

  Will watched Alba’s brown blood flow. He heard the woeful sound as the power left him and he sank to his knees. He fell and began to melt back into the cold clay from which he had arisen. A last groan escaped him and then Alba was gone forever, leaving behind only a hump in the earth like the tomb of an ancient king to show his final resting place.

  With Alba’s downfall came the vanquishing of their last hopes. Gwydion said, ‘It will take one greater even than an earth giant to save us now.’

  ‘Who?’ Will asked.

  ‘Who but Great Arthur could face down such a foe?’

  He stared at the harm that gathered itself among the shadows below. It melted and merged with itself again, becoming huge and hideous, and taking on something of the shape of the adversary it had defeated. Swirling mists crossed and recrossed and drew themselves up into giant form for the onslaught.

  Gwydion raised his fire-blackened hands imploringly. His voice roared out, ‘Did I not tell you there would come a day when you were no longer afraid of giants?’

  Will smiled grimly. ‘I wish I had a worthy weapon in my hand.’

  ‘That wish at least may be granted, for see what place Arondiel has brought us to! Now they call it Beacon Hill, yet this was a great battlefield of old.’

  And something in Will stirred and he said, ‘Is its name not…Badon Hill?’

  ‘The very same! Now ask for your sword and it shall be granted to you!’

  And Will went to a knoll below the road and stared down it, enthralled now, and lifting up his arms, he called out, ‘Anh farh bouaidan! An ger bouaidhane!’

  And this time as the words came to his lips, he knew that he had once exhorted a great army to victory with the same formula. But now it was Gwydion’s turn to make subtle words. He stooped down, for there, shimmering before Will in the grass, there had appeared a sword hilt.

  As Will took it in his right hand, a great power seemed to flow in him. He drew the blade from the earth as easily as if he had been sliding it from a scabbard. It was not unlike the sword that had lain at Leir’s side, a blade forged long ago. He raised it and saw that it was bright, nimble to the hand and well-balanced. It shone with a high, golden polish that reflected the pale sky and the last of the stars of night. It pleased him very much to take it in his hand.

  ‘Its name is “Branstock”,’ Gwydion said, his eyes as live as coals now.

  ‘The Sword of Might?’ Will whispered, recalling the histories.

  ‘It is the hallowed blade and none other!’

  ‘But how did it come here?’

  ‘How? Because your fate follows you as closely as shadows follow other men. Wield that sword with all your skill, and prepare to die like a hero of old!’

  Will turned to face his doom. Down below the victorious harm shrieked until all the hillside echoed. Arm in arm, wizard and warrior backed the last few paces to the summit of the scarp and there stood ready to receive their foe. This is where they would make their stand, here upon the beacon, facing into the darkened west, Gwydion with his staff, Will with his sword, and defiance in both their hearts. Gwydion planted his feet and prepared what spells he could for the last moments. It was now his plan to bleed as great a quantity of harm as he could, to diminish as far as possible the plague he had unleashed upon the world.

  Below them, the harm showed its rage. It uttered a laugh rich in menace and triumph, yet as it climbed the scarp towards them, Will raised his sword against it defiantly. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the wizard. No longer did he feel any impulse to run. If he was going to die it seemed fitting that he should die here, beside his friend and teacher, protecting the last Phantarch for as long as his strength might last.

  He opened his mind wide, then, and drew in a deep breath of cold air. At last, the oppression of fear began to lift from his spirit. Little by little he took good heart and resolved to fall upon the harm and not to hang back as he had hung back from Maskull. He took two paces forward and held the sword before him, unmoving as the foe came for him.

  It tried to swipe him down, and pain flashed through him as the semblance of an arm lashed out at his head. It nearly threw him down, but with a cry he swung the sword and leapt aside, driving the blade upward as Gwydion’s blue thunderbolts burst in the air all around.

  The harm coalesced into a vile parody of its vanquished enemy. A great, craggy head appeared above Will. A mighty limb tried to crush him, stamp him down, but he danced out of reach, and the giant beast, blinded by fury and malice, tore open air and shivered empty ground impotently.

  Then, suddenly, Will’s brave blade tore into solid matter and stopped dead. He stumbled forward as agony ran down through hi
s arm. One! – two! – three! – thunderbolts crashed against the beast, forcing it to let go of the blade. Will saw how the wizard’s efforts weakened each time. Down Will went. Yet Gwydion stood astride his body, flinging out feeble dregs of magic until the beast turned and tore him aside.

  A torrent of dirt swirled up, pelted him with stones, and he was blinded and another pain reared up to fog his mind. But he dashed the dust from his streaming eyes and saw the harm change its shape into that of a fierce and fearsome beast.

  Gwydion lay on the ground, exhausted and defenceless before it, and as Will’s sight cleared he found his feet and advanced, raising the blade one last time over the body of his fallen friend.

  ‘Ar Gwydionh!’ he cried in the true tongue. ‘This is for your sake!’

  And though the harm loomed close over them, something made it halt. Will could not see what it was, but when he raised his sword again, lifting it high above his head, the blade flashed crimson and the grotesque form snarled and turned from side to side as if it was in pain. It roared in rage and threw up a great spurt of dark fire as if to ward off unseen blows. Then, like a wounded bear, it flailed and faltered and began to stumble backward.

  ‘Master Gwydion! Get up!’Will said, waving Branstock aloft. ‘Look! It’s turned away!’

  And on the dark side of the slope the shadow of war was indeed falling back, groaning, crouching low against the hummocky ground. As its marrow failed, so it crawled, cringing lower, as if seeking now only some kind of escape. Will stared in wonder, then looked behind to see what could have worked such a miracle. And there, across the stretch of open land of the Plains of Hooe, pulling itself clear of the eastern horizon, was the magnificent crimson disc of the sun.

  The shadow roared again, but this time it was a roar of impotence and despair, the cry of a beast that knew its fate. It struggled, thrashed, sought to dig itself into the ground to avoid the rays that would destroy it.